


Not a Lot of Feelings

by k45tl3



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Cliches and tropes, Crushes, M/M, NSFW themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2018-09-20 09:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9485054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k45tl3/pseuds/k45tl3
Summary: The BLU Spy has been more of a pain than usual and the RED Sniper doesn't know how to feel about this, and how to deal with said feelings.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I'm back! Here is some very stereotypical SniperSpy fic because I love this type of thing too much. I kind of relate to some people's headcanon Snipers, so I think I kind of act like he does here, because sometimes I don't understand what people are trying to communicate with their posh subtleties.

 

“You know I don’t usually do this type of thing, but ya leave me no choice.” The RED Sniper got a hold of the BLU Spy’s collar and had pinned him up against the wall. “You’ve been pissin’ about a lot lately, guess it’s my turn now.”

A breath was caught between the two men. There was a certain look in the Spy’s eye; it wasn’t fear or anger or distress. It was almost curiosity, the way he scanned the Sniper’s face. Sniper could feel the Spy’s heartbeat. There was something so intimate about this sort of combat, and he couldn’t imagine why anyone would choose to do it this way, except for maybe people like the Spy. 

    The tip of his kukri was driven through the piece of fabric he was pulling off of the Spy’s clothes and into the wood behind them. One of Sniper’s two large hands confined the Spy’s smaller ones in a death grip that stung the Frenchman’s wrists through his kidskin gloves. He stole the Spy’s cigarette before taking it between his own lips, and pulled out the butterfly knife he had just confiscated from the him. He rolled up the hem of the man’s balaclava and pressed the cold steel to his neck, eyes clear blue slits looking over the edge of his sunglasses. The Spy shuddered. “Don’t fuck about, mate, it’s all I ask.” 

    The blade came through his skin as if it were butter and blood began to gush out smoothly. Sniper beheld the sight for a split second before stubbing the cigarette out on the wall next to where the Spy was and releasing his body, which crumpled to a heap at the base of the wall, losing opacity before it was finally all taken by respawn. 

    Sniper wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t do things like this. It wasn’t his job to mess with people before killing them. That was what the Spy did, now more often than ever. He knew that this was an easy kill; Spy offered no resistance whatsoever, and he knew that the Frenchman would probably come back unchanged, teasing him further before finally offing him however he would. 

    He started to walk toward where most of the fighting was going on. The crunch of gravel under his boots and the distant shouts suddenly made him all too aware of how fast his heart was beating. Why the hell did the Spy insist on playing with him so much lately? It irritated it him more than it should, he knew that, but it was beginning to be too much. He didn’t _hate_ the man. Not at all, in fact; he almost respected him. It was strictly business between the two of them. Or at least it was until Spy brought in this mish-mash of mind games. Feelings were something always better avoided in the Sniper’s book, and now there were feelings. Not a _lot_ of feelings, but he could’ve gone without, especially when they were feelings he couldn’t place, not beyond confusion and frustration at least. It didn’t seem the Spy was angry at him or anything. He had no reason to be. Sniper knew the Spy wouldn’t hold a grudge over anything other than a personal attack, and Sniper did not make personal attacks. He was simply doing his job. The Spy knew that; he was a professional too, after all. Why was it then that he was disrupting his efforts to do his job? And why did he let him get a kill like that? 

    He sighed. It wasn’t right for him to get hung up on something like this, it was upsetting him and affecting his performance; and besides, there would be no way to figure out what was going through the Spy’s mind lately. He’d have to get used to it.

     In the time before the blue-suited Frenchman appeared again, the Sniper found the thoughts of him wouldn’t leave his mind. The heartbeat he felt against his own earlier that day echoed in his thoughts. He was preoccupied, to the point that RED’s own Spy approached him to ask why he had to be getting the BLU Heavy himself all day. 

“It is like you forgot you were here! Please, pay attention to what you are doing! Has someone done something to you, that you aren’t working properly?” 

“Yeah, sorry Spy. I’m, er, just having a bit of an off day today.”

    “Are you?” 

    Sniper’s eyes widened as the RED Spy before him flickered into the BLU. 

    “You know you shouldn’t let me get in your way like this.”

    “Oi, but why are you doin’ this?”

    “It gets a little bit dull out here, don’t you think?” 

    The Sniper didn’t know what to think about this remark. Smoke stained teeth flashed before the Sniper before the heat that had pooled up in him brought him to swing into the Spy’s jaw. The moment he hit, regret flashed through him, although he didn’t know why. 

     When he was upright again, the Frenchman’s smile was gone. Sniper had stepped back, chest heaving, ready for retaliation. He waited a few seconds, not taking his eyes off the Spy, who looked incensed by now. When the fist hit him, the pain dispersed through his head in those few seconds, and everything had gone slower. It was a strange sensation; it was like he wanted this. If the Spy wanted to play games then he could. Nevermind being a professional, it was too late for that now. Before he was aware of it, he was falling toward the Spy again, knocking him in the side of the head. Spy was soon to return the favour yet again, but this time the force brought the Australian down into the dust, the Spy falling with him. His vision went dark for a second, if not from the blow to the head from the Spy then from making contact with the hard ground as he fell, and when he opened his eyes he saw the Spy atop him, looking calmer now. 

    “What are we doing, Spook?” 

    “I don’t know Bushman,” he remarked, pulling a cigarette out of his case. He was still very clearly annoyed, but not enough to sock the Sniper in the face once again. 

    “What are ya trying to start?” 

    “I have no idea what you mean.”

    “Yeah, no idea at all, what with all this teasing lately. Can’t you just go back to your old backstabs and leave it at that?”

    “I’m afraid not.” The Spy was still not making any eye contact with the Sniper, who at that moment took full awareness of the manner in which the Spy was straddling him. 

    “Get off then, would ya? Or kill me, at least.” 

    “As you wish.” The Spy was looking at him now. “Open up.” 

    Sniper was confused for a second, but obliged. Spy pulled The Ambassador out and slipped it in the Sniper’s open mouth. Sniper shivered, as he peered up at the Spy, who was  considering him in a manner that reminded him most of a cat before he made a sound. Sniper couldn’t tell if it was a pleased, satisfied rumble or more of a derisive snort. He didn’t have too much time to think about it either way, because before any other thought or emotion had a chance to enter his mind (or his groin), the Spy pulled the trigger.

    “Fuck,” he whispered as he walked out into the setting sun. “Can’t let things like this keep happening.” 

    The rest of the battle wasn’t great for RED. Sniper felt as if though he and their Spy were the only ones alive on their team. Headshots were made, sure, but there were more misses than makes. At one point he decided to change positions. When he got to another spot, one of his less preferred nests, he could’ve sworn he detected the scent of the BLU Spy. He must’ve been there pondering for a couple of seconds, because soon he woke up in respawn again. Headshot. He looked up at the big clock in the resupply room. Minute forty-seven. He slumped against the wall, waiting for the humiliation round to begin. 

    “Mission ends in sixty seconds.”

    Maybe they wouldn’t find him if he hid. Up to a nest on the other side of the map, no one would find him there. He could even sit till long after the battle, so he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone on the way back to base, so nobody could ask where he was going or why he was leaving so quickly. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway. It would be good – he’d be alone. 

    “Mission ends in thirty seconds.” 

    He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it with a match. _Just a bit more and I can go back to my van, where I can be all alone. No spies, no knives, no backstabs and no gunshots._

    “Five, four, three, two, one. You failed!” He wondered how it could be that the REDs heard one thing over the loudspeakers and the BLUs heard another, but in a place with respawn and teleporters, anything was possible. A few distant cries reached his ears. He let the back of his head hit the wall as he exhaled, smoke filling his vision as it descended. The humiliation round would end briefly, maybe in five minutes. He was safe here, the BLUs were too busy chasing his team out by another control point, he’d be fine. 

    After a moment, Scout ran in, breathless, leaning against the wall before he saw Sniper on the ground.

    “Man, I thought nobody was left alive.”

    “Tough battle today.”

    “Yeah, yeah it was. I saw that goddamned BLU Spy after you all day. What an asshole!” 

    “Yep.” Sniper turned his head and looked out the window to the quickly darkening sky, before turning back, resting his head against the wall as he looked at the ceiling and closing his eyes. Then he heard it.

    “Too bad that everyone else is dead, Scout too.” The Spy flipped the Eternal Reward around between his fingers. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you company.”

    “What the fuck did you want now? You got your kills, you got your fun, no?” 

    “I am here to talk to you.”

    “Alright, ya finished yet? You’ve done an awful lot of talking today.” 

    The Frenchman said nothing, instead lighting a cigarette of his own and sitting down next to the Sniper. 

    “Well, what is it you were going to tell me? I haven’t got all day to spend with a sodding backstabbing bastard like you.” 

    “Spend the night with me then, Cher.” 

    “What?” The Sniper was making an effort not to look at the Spy, who was looking intently at him. He could feel the cool blue eyes scanning him over. He wouldn’t break, wouldn’t show any emotion.

    “Look at me.” 

    “Why?”

    After another response of silence, the Sniper finally turned his head. “What are you doing, Spook?”

    “I don’t know.” He averted his eyes now. Sniper could see a slight flush on the other man’s skin, at least in the part exposed from the balaclava. 

    “Oh god.”

    “What?”

    “You–” 

    Spy stood up. “I what?” The man was a great actor, his troubled countenance was gone in that instance. His wavering voice was replaced by his usual cool, sneering tone. “See  you tomorrow, bushman.” 

     Sniper could hardly hear any footsteps once the Spy left. RED had told him something about Spies having soft soles so they wouldn’t make too much noise. An unusual feeling came over him the moment the Spy left, he didn’t realize how close they were sitting until he was gone, the absence of the other man’s breath which filled the space between them revealing the decreasing temperature as the night approached the desert. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sniper figures things out -- kinda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I apologise for the long wait but my writers block came down on me HARD in recent weeks. Here is the next chapter; kind of short, but I suppose all of my chapters are. Anyhow, I appreciate any feedback as usual, and you can even shoot me a request for a one shot or something a bit longer! Enjoy!

    Sniper felt goosebumps on his neck as he rubbed harsh bar soap on his shoulder over and over again, drying his skin out as it sunk in, cool water flushing over. He sputtered a bit when he looked up and faced the showerhead for a second before turning it off. He thought he was cold while the water was on, but now he was shivering in earnest. It wasn’t _that_ cold.

The showers were dark; he was the only one there. It was very early and no one was up yet. The the white tiles were usually sticky with steam, but now the cold ceramics were reminiscent of only one thing to him: a Spy’s knife. His towel felt rough against his skin, and his clothes foreign and stiff.

What the Sniper was feeling would best be described as all around terrible, and he’d cry if he could. A familiar sinking feeling took over his body. There was an edge to the pit of dread in his stomach, an edge of excitement which pooled in his navel; the only part of him which was warm. He was nauseous from the Spy’s mind games, and he didn’t notice during the previous day that it messed with him so badly, but part of him wanted to go back out there right away and see what the Frenchman would do next. He wanted to feel his heartbeat and hear his voice and feel his breath on his own sticky sweat-slick skin and _Oh God what am I thinking?_ His reflection stared blankly back at him as he supported himself on the steel wall hung trough sink, breathing a bit more heavily than usual.

He sat himself down on the utilitarian bench lining one of the cold walls of the bathroom and leaned back, exhaling before moving to pull his boots on. The floor was a bit damp still and he noticed some red-orange streaks on the floor from the desert sand left on his boots meeting the cool water that collected in between the tiles. He could hear every sound he made in the complete and utter silence that overtook the bathroom. His breathing was audible like words should be, and every shuffle was sufficient to increase his uneasyness. It was unsettling, and the clicking of his boots accompanied by the smallest not quite splash served only to make him more nervous.

The goosebumps only started to settle down when Sniper got to the wooden floor outside the washrooms, which dulled the sound of his boots a bit and eliminated the cool echo that characterised tiled rooms. He heard someone snoring down the hallway, and his thoughts began to drift away from the Spy, at least until he met REDs own leaning against the kitchen counter smoking a cigarette and looking straight at the entrance he was emerging from. Sniper coughed.

“What’re you doin’ up so early, up to no good?” He tried to sound confident but his voice wavered a bit.

“I could very well ask you the same, but I know well you are an early riser. I also know that you haven’t been sleeping well.” The Spy rose up from his position and walked in the vague direction of the other man as he advanced toward the cupboard where the cups and mugs were stored.

“What are you trying to say?” he said somewhat absently.

“Don’t let him push you around.”

This earned a second of silence from the Sniper. “Oi! Listen–”

“I’m just trying to advise you bushman. This is taking a toll on you and it’s affecting our team. Don’t be foolish.”

“Hey–”

The man dismissed him with a wave of his hand before he had any chance to make any argumentative statement, going up in a puff of smoke. Sniper looked bewildered for a second before proceeding to make his first coffee of the day.

 

 

Dust. Blood and coffee and dust were all he saw and all he tasted. All he heard was the sound he made as he hacked and coughed upon the ground, and the heavy breathing of the Spy. All he felt were pain and the Spy’s hot, heavy exhales upon the back of his neck and a gloved hand around the front. He was ready to die. His hairs stood on end, and the struggle he felt as he pushed away from the other man was incredible. It was almost like trying to release yourself from the death grip of some wild beast, but here, he had lost the urge to fight. Or so he thought.

Despite his original intent, he pushed to turn around and look the man in the eyes. Cold, grey eyes filled with an emotion he couldn’t read stared into yellow tinted aviators. The breathing calmed, and the Spy loosened his grip.

“What are you looking at, Bushman?”

It couldn't be called a snarl.

The Sniper never thought he could hear such a magnificent whisper before that one of the Spy’s. The perfect whisper it was; words riding upon the cigarette tainted breath that came out from between strong and beautiful yet slightly yellowed teeth, his voice gravelly and English stained with a language that the he could only associate with this man who was his enemy and now – now something more than that. It was the last thing he could remember, along with the somewhat familiar feeling of the balisong twisting in his belly. The words lost any small amount of meaning they had as they swirled around the Australian’s head. It was one of those moments where he wasn’t entirely sure if he heard something right so he kept repeating it in his thoughts until he heard it again or made sense of it.

 

 

The former didn’t come true until the sun started shining its last on the valley and he was stooped over a rooftop, not particularly looking to shoot at anyone but generally scanning the expansive land TF Industries had sacrificed for this little war. He wondered what it was like here before the mercs were put to work. It was clearly of some sort of industrial function, with all the warehouses and grain silos about the place, which in and of itself was rather large and must’ve had a rather large group of people working here. It explained the size of Teufort; people came out here to work. A good few hundred families must’ve lived there, and now when the large factory was used for…other purposes, it was mostly devoid of anyone in the younger two generations save for the children of those who stayed here making a living on their small businesses.

People seemed to assume that Sniper was a quite fellow because he was dumb and decided no to speak at all, but this was not the case. He was near always lost in thought, wondering about this and that, and now wondering about these things, when he was startled out of his mind by the unmistakable voice:

“It is a rather nice evening isn’t it?” The Spy knelt down next to the Sniper, who was completely stiff and staring straight ahead, wide-eyed. “That doesn’t mean you should forget your surroundings like that, lest I kill you.” He poked the Sniper’s back with his knife just enough that he knew it was there.

The Spy thought that the man’s shaking was due to his sudden presence, but he was just as much surprised as the Sniper was seconds before when the sharpshooter jumped up at him, talking hold of his collar and rolling him over onto the ground.

His aviators fell off of his face at the sharp movement, and he found himself staring eye-to-eye with his long-time enemy and newly found subject of intrigue.

The impulse was similar to that of the punch he had thrown the day before, and as soon as he saw the Frenchman’s blue eyes peering up at him in surprise turning into anticipation for his next move, his muscles relaxed a bit and he let go of the Spy. A few seconds passed by of continued eye contact, and he got off of the Spy, who let out a bit of a cough before he sat up and pulled a cigarette out of his coat and putting it between his lips before offering one to the Sniper, who hesitated a bit as he reached before taking it and sliding it between his lips and flipping open the lighter that the Spy offered, making a ritual of lighting the thing before extending his arm to return the lighter. The Spy glanced at it in his hand, but instead leaned in to light his own off of the Sniper’s, who’s eyes widened for a second. He was too exhausted to react any further to this mundane and easily ignorable gesture, even though no gesture the Spy made was ever unintentional. Sniper noticed that he was still staring the Spy straight in the eye and decided to avert his gaze, beyond the Spy, where the desert extended for miles but somehow not in the same manner as it did in the Outback. He also couldn’t help but notice that the Spy kept his eyes on his anyway.

“You were rather talkative yesterday, Bushman. Are you going to say anything?”

He had no choice but to turn his attention back to the Spy. “There isn’t very much to say, Spook.”

“Or perhaps you just don’t know what to say.”

“Olright then; did you come up here to kill me, or to fuck with me and then kill me?”

“What if I came here just to fuck with you?” He let out a graceful puff of smoke. “I wouldn’t hoist myself up onto this dusty, hot roof just to stab you and leave, would I?”

The Sniper considered this for a second. There must be a little bit of strength somewhere in the Spy’s wiry frame if he could pull himself up here. It was hard to tell with that suit which was so perfectly trimmed, and with his posture that implied something that wasn’t quite frailty but a sort of daintiness that still didn’t take away from the unmistakable masculinity that came with every single one of the mercenaries save for perhaps the Pyro (and even he had a sort of manly swagger about some of his motions). He was still a strong, fit fellow with the attributes expected of a man of his trade. His thoughts wandered a bit at this and he imagined the ripples that must be in the Spy’s back and shoulders, perfectly toned and carried with well deserved arrogance, glazed over with a bit of sweat… _Bloody fucking Spook.  
_

“I suppose ya wouldn’t. But you wouldn’t come here just to fuck with me either. It’s awful cold of you to have a durry with a man you intend to kill in a few minutes though, innit?”

“No one on this land has any right to point out any moral discrepancies in another. We are all beyond damned at this point.”

Sniper didn’t know what to say next; or rather didn’t want try to say anything. It was more than a bit strange to be casually conversing and smoking with someone who presumably approached you with the intent to kill. It was even stranger imagining them naked, admiring their imaginary form, when they were in any and all a positions to blow your brains out right there and then. Nothing was stranger, however, than the fact that this was a man who he was now fighting with over life for years, and now he had a desire for _intimacy?_ with him. For the past couple of days, he had half-consciously anticipated every moment they’d be pressed up close to each other, either one of them seconds away from death (which was however temporary, still very painful), struggling with something that wasn’t even close to hatred; struggling out of habit and obligation and intrigue and fear for something other than death. It was something totally novel yet something that felt totally natural to be sitting here on this roof with him as the sun was setting and their comrades died their last of the day below them. He exhaled.

“Kill me.”

“Pardon?”

“Bloody kill me. Shoot me in the fucking head.”

“But _cher,_ we were having such a _nice time!_ ”

The Sniper threw his head back, looking at the impossible expanse of the skies, slowly changing colour as if a fiery ink had been dropped into the bluest of pools.

“Spook?”

“Oui?”

“Do you…”

“Do I?”

“I dunno. You should either kill me or leave. It’s getting late, and you don’t want to be around for the humiliation round.”

“Would you kill me?” The Spy had an edge of vulnerability to his voice that the Sniper hadn’t heard from him before. He didn’t know if he could believe it, either; the Spy was a top-rate thespian, after all.

“I don’t know if I could.” The reply was just as naïve as the question.

“I suppose it will have to be you, then, _mon ami._ ”

The Sniper didn’t have the chance to inquire; as soon as he looked up, he was met with a bullet between his eyes. Looks like he wouldn’t respawn until after the battle.

 

 

    The Sniper’s last interaction with the Spy was a little bit more than bugging him, although he didn’t know why. There was no particular bitterness to the way they parted, not that that should matter. He killed him. What else did he expect? What else did he _want?_ It wasn’t like he’d be getting anything out of this little _crush_ he had developed on the Spy.

He sat staring down at the still mostly full bottle of beer in his hand which was getting warm now, the banter of the other mercs passing him by completely. All he could access within his thoughts and recollections from the past day were moments spent with the BLU Spy. Any brief physical contact or prolonged stare was haunting him. Part of him wished the Spy could die and die for good (best at his own hands), but the currently more dominant part wished to have the man within an arm’s reach, to reach out and kill or to pull in, to… to _kiss?_

For all he was concerned, he wasn’t _meant_ to be kissing other blokes. Neither were Heavy and Medic, but who was he to say anything? Even if he did mind, which he really didn’t, he wouldn’t say anything. You don’t say anything in environments like this, not about stuff like this, and not when the ears of whoever your subject may be are so close to you and counting on the mercy of any of the mercenaries was not a good place to be in. Even the Scout was not one to be fucked with; the kid may not have the physical strength and years’ wisdom that the others had, but he could end you rather unpleasantly.

The remaining questions were whether the Sniper himself was at all a force to be reckoned with in the eyes of the others, and whether he’d be taken kindly as a poofter in the event that it wasn’t so. It also had to be taken into account the fact that the “object of his infatuation” was the enemy Spy, so not only would he be in for his gaiety, but also treachery; he just didn’t know how well it would go down with Soldier’s traditional American values. He was sure his father wouldn’t appreciate it, and he himself was still a bit shocked by the fact that he just now realised why he never longed for the touch of the fairer sex.

But perhaps it was too early to come to any any conclusion. Why did he assume he was catching feelings for the rogue? The Sniper was always introverted, and he never particularly craved and contact with anyone. Perhaps this was just his mind deciding it’s been too long since he any sort of relationship outside of the brotherly camaraderie he had developed with the other REDs and choosing the most interesting subject in his field of operation for his thoughts to dwell on. It made more sense than the suggestion that he fancied his (arguably) greatest enemy. It made more sense than the suggestion that he fancied a _man_. It’s not like he’d do anything about it if he really did like the Spy like that; he would wait until it passed by, just as his nature indicated. He just really hoped that the sensible was the truth this time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so sorry for being so late, I can't even remember where the time went. 
> 
> Did y'all think I was dead? I sure did. Have another chapter. 
> 
> Sorry it's not longer, I don't know how to write long chapters. 
> 
> Go visit my [tumblr](http://teufortgothic.tumblr.com/), I put some content out there sometimes.

_5:27_ , read the clock on the small piece of wall space over the cab in the living quarters of Sniper’s camper. Half five in the goddamn morning. He made his coffee super strong, the sound of hot water being poured and the rustling of his trousers the only things he could hear. It was still a bit cool in the mornings, but he opened the camper door and stepped out barefoot and shirtless nonetheless to light himself a cigarette as he drank his coffee and watched the sun rising. He arguably still had an hour and a half to sleep, but it wouldn’t happen. His slumber was very light and he’d been waking up every couple of hours, and this was not the first night in recent memory that this had happened.

The circles under his eyes had deepened since the last “incident” he had with the Spy, and he had avoided the man since then. The Spy seemed to hold similar sentiments to his – or completely different sentiments with the same outcome – and kept their meetings short, swift and painless, just like they had always been. The Sniper thought he would be able to say that he was happy with this, but then when it came down to it, he could say he was happy about pretty much everything about his daily life. Perhaps a better thing to call his state was ‘comfortable’ or ‘appeased.’ He couldn’t help but feel that there was something he still wanted from the Spy. He had not yet forgotten about the feeling of butterflies in his stomach he would get when the butterfly knife was up against his neck, and when he knew the Spy was in the room his blood pressure would rise and his heart would pound like it did the first time he heard a bullet fly past his head. He wanted to brush the idea of the feeling off as an adrenaline rush or simply the fear of death, but that’s not something he’d encountered in awhile. His subconscious had adapted to the fact that he indeed was not going to die, and he himself came to the conclusion that in all this monotony the small failure of yet another death at the hands of the Spy was of no significance whatsoever in this altogether meaningless war. If that was so, then perhaps he could pass his thoughts and feelings off as insignificant, as well as those of the Spy. If the Spy even had any feelings, which the Sniper in part doubted. The other part of him figured that all the Spy’s feelings were foul and mean-spirited. _What was he ever even talking about?_ Sniper realised that he hadn’t ever taken much time to realise what the Spy was ever saying. Maybe he was missing something and the Spy had legitimate reasons for approaching him, however strange and unreasonable he was in doing so. Maybe that was why the Spy stopped messing with him, maybe he wasn’t being an arse. On the other hand, that was about as likely as the Scout admitting he was into men. 

Sniper found himself smiling a bit now, and decided that, in order to avoid returning to his recent long lasting state of dejection, he should go find company at the base among the other early birds on the RED team, lest he begin thinking about the Spy again. He slipped back into the cabin of his camper and got a shirt and socks on, before opening his knife drawer to retrieve his kukri, only to find it empty, save for a small slip of paper, bent twofold horizontally, a quarter in from both top and bottom, and sealed in the middle with oxford blue wax stamped with the Spy’s class symbol, and a key, with the same emblem – not the one he kept to keep that drawer locked. He hesitated a bit before finding his one remaining blade, which was a pocket knife in his vest to carefully open the sealed note. “ _Come find me,_ ” it read. “Come find you,” Sniper said aloud. “I suppose I should bring the key, too.” He continued, almost as if he was testing if the Spy was still there. He realised that this theft may have taken place anywhere in the time since yesterday after the battle until now. He also realised that this may be a trap, although he didn’t seem to have much choice in following the Spy’s vague instruction. Besides; death was no longer something to fear, right? What’s the worst the man could do in the context of battle? The Sniper’s anxiety subsided into ardency as he considered the alternative to sitting in one of his nests and repeatedly shooting at the little BLU men running around below and finding their Spy instead, and perhaps figuring out what his deal is in the process. 

Today had the potential to be a very good or very bad day. Sniper figured that, statistically, a different sort of bad day is better than the same sort of bad day, in the end. He pulled his boots on before opening the door and encountering the desert breeze with a different attitude than before. He smiled for the second time that day when his boot hit the the dust outside with a satisfying thud. The Sniper’s smile was gone without a trace but an hour later, once he was sitting in the RED base’s kitchen with all the other mercs assembled. It wasn’t like Sniper had any problem with the other men (and Pyro) that he worked and lived with; in fact, he rather liked them all and the specific traits of each of them had. However, it wasn’t necessarily pleasant when you had eight men(?) with questionable mental stabilities gathered together in a room just as the sun had risen. With half of them hungover, one still drunk and draped over a chair passed out, snoring loudly ( _Soldier must’ve dragged him in here_ , Sniper mused), one talking about nothing and everything all at once at speeds and volumes which most are incapable of, and the fire alarm going off amidst it all with amused mumbles coming from the masked figure standing unnervingly close to the source of the fire, it was of no surprise at all that someone as reserved as the Sniper was a bit irritated. After Engie had gotten up to go do something about the fire and Scout’s volumes somehow increased (breaking the boundaries and possibilities of modern physics), Sniper eventually decided it would be best if he simply stood up and headed for the door. He pushed open the door leading to the rest of the mercs’ living quarters and began to head into the hall until he heard the whole room behind him go silent. 

“What do you mean you’d kiss a guy?” Sniper heard Soldier inquiring. 

“I mean…” He saw the Scout glancing around the room desperately. “I guess I meant–” Scout’s eyes rested on the RED team’s dazed Scotsman before clearing his throat and standing a little bit straighter and leaning in gently. 

The bushman couldn’t believe his eyes, and it was of no doubt that most if not all the other mercenaries in the room were just as or even more shocked by what the Bostonian had just decided to do; although it was usually more difficult to tell because of the deep hues of his skin, Demoman (who had been roused from sleep by the smoke) was blushing a deep crimson. Hell had frozen over. The Scout had just kissed the Demolitions Expert. 

It was an omen. Although the Sniper knew that this meant absolutely nothing, the drop in his stomach signified that part of him felt Spy would be up to something particularly devious today. The silence was becoming painful in the kitchen space, with Demoman having sobered up in that split second, and Scout cowering, face redder than the RED uniform t-shirt he wore, which he pulled up to hide his face behind the fabric. The RED Spy was the only one who didn’t seem completely flabbergasted at the recent happenings, and began strolling in the Sniper’s direction with an amused look on his face. 

“I should not be raising any confusion when I say that I hesitate to call that man my son.” Sniper didn’t know how to reply, so he began walking down the corridor, the Spy following him. The Frenchman pulled a slim case out of his jacket and upon opening it offered a cigarette to the other man. Sniper much preferred his own Camels, but decided he needed a smoke at the moment, be it any brand or flavour as long as the nicotine was there, and took the Gauloise in between his fingers, rolling it side to side, inspecting it before the Spy handed him a lighter. 

“I’ve realised that your troubles with your BLU friend have subsided a bit recently, yes?” the Spy inquired. Sniper felt a pang of anxiety in his solar plexus before finding his voice. “Yeah, seems like it, I suppose.” 

“I see that,” Spy took a draw from the cigarette resting elegantly between his finger. “I see that you’ve improved a bit from the last time we spoke of this. Although you haven’t returned to your former level of skill.” He halted his fluid movements, and paused. Sniper turned around to look at him. “I have reason to believe that this is causing you personal distress. I trust you, Sniper. I trust your skill.” 

“I also know that you don’t give a damn.” Sniper didn’t know what to think of the Spy’s concern; all he knew was that he wasn’t liking it. 

“About our team’s performance? No, you’re right, not really. But you are good man, of admirable skills and qualities. I have seen good, strong men fall as someone or something hacks away at their ankles. I may be a bastard, yes. But I have an interest in protecting my acquaintances, non?” 

The Sniper again, was silent. He was aware that he knew the Spy well enough; and that the Spy knew _him_ even better, that a reply was not necessary, and that neither were the types of men who needed to voice sentiment nor fill silence. 

They walked out into the sunny, enclosed space between the sleeping quarters and the supply room, golden light shining into little corners and casting shadows upon the desert dust. Sniper felt the small piece of paper crinkling in his pocket and he felt almost safe. It wasn’t warm quite yet, but the sight of sunlight reflecting off of his cheekbone into the glass of his aviators gave him a warm, reassuring feeling, like he knew that as long as the sun was shining, as long as his throat was dry with desert air, he was okay. He entered the supply room to set his stuff down and check the big digital clock on the wall counting down until the battle began. He had 30-something minutes left, so he turned back and entered the hallway back to the living quarters again, taking a right down to a short corridor which ended at a heavy steel door that glowed green with the exit sign above. He pushed in the door to be greeted by the golden light once again, just this time with no chain link fence, no barbed wire, and no ominous warnings signs, at least not for quite a distance. Here it was just him and the desert and the distant mountains. Him and the remote screams of a hawk, circling somewhere above. Him and his pounding heart. 

Sniper threw the almost burned through Gauloise into the vivid fire orange soil before crushing it with his heel, and brought out his own cigarettes, observing the heat mirage above the flame of his lighter for a moment before dipping in the end of the joe, watching the loose bits of tobacco sticking out the paper smolder before taking the initial puff off his Camel. Now that his imminent meeting with the Spy was within imaginable distance, he was less determined and more unmotivated. The anxiety was ever-present, that wasn’t what was bothering him. It was just the question of what exactly the Spy was planning on doing. It couldn’t be good. There was not one pleasant thing the Frenchman could do that came to the Sniper’s mind that combated the infinite painful things he could do. Despite their countless nature, one word came to mind: _Torture_. Sniper had a high pain tolerance, but he had enough experience regarding people’s capabilities when it came to causing anguish and he knew that the least he could expect was much more than he could have wanted.. 

He also knew better. The Spy definitely wasn’t so evil or mono-faceted as to be pulling anything too sinister without reason. If he had such intentions, he wouldn’t be so “gentle” with his previous advances. He wouldn’t sit down and converse, he wouldn’t smile and laugh when he could very well be causing grievous bodily harm to his Aussie target. Something else was coming. Sniper closed his eyes and exhaled a coiling chain of smoke and imagined slender fingers running down his naked back, one of the two hands gloved, Gauloise breath on his neck— 

“Oi, ye mind if I have a sit down with you, lad?” 

The Sniper thought his eyes would pop out of his sockets at how hard he had just coughed. 

“––you alright there, Bruce*?” 

Sniper took a second to recover from his bewildered coughing fit: “Aye, I’m absolutely fantastic.” He might as well have been caught having a wank, which although totally not unusual among the mercs, was still quite humiliating. It was, in all technicality, a mental wank, and that that the Scot could have had no less the knowledge of. In any case, the marksman could still feel the heat of his face turning crimson, although he wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed because of Demoman’s presence, or embarrassed because of the realisation that this was _maybe_ the third time he’d ever harboured such thoughts regarding the Spy; thoughts which he absolutely refused to accept, under any circumstance. It didn’t matter if it was a vulnerability of thoughts in front of his friend if it was a sentiment he had taken time to consider and attempt to understand or, at the very least, a sentiment he would have made the effort to discard. This however, was an open wound which he refused to acknowledge and subsequently had let bleed, staining his clothes, revealing the existence of the issue to unwanted observers. Of course, Demoman had absolutely no idea that the Sniper had been having a wet daydream about the BLU Spy, but that of course had never occurred to the Sniper, which threw him into a deeper state of unrest. 

“Ya sure about that, laddy? You’d just about hacked up a lung like a dog who’s got a cricket in his windpipe!” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m perfect. Listen, we should be goin’ in, shouldn’t we? Match’ll be startin’ soon, no?” 

“I suppose, but yer gonnae tell me what’s up later, aye?” 

Sniper mumbled some sort of half-agreement before making use of his long legs to put a fair amount of distance between himself and Demo. It was time to make up his mind; was he going to look for the Spy, deliberately not look for him, or simply cruise through the day, having not made any decision, having run from the choice of making a choice, as he so often did? 

He decided that he was sick of the latter, as that was all he’d been doing for the longer (or shorter) time –– he couldn’t remember. It was better to do nothing, right? That way he could avoid consequence, good or bad, that would lead to change. He sometimes realised that that didn’t change much, on account of inaction also leading to consequence, but he decided to ignore that too. 

He remembered his gung-ho attitude in regard to the Spy’s note he held that morning, and realised that his previous self had been right; he hadn’t much of a choice. 

Sniper opened his locker where he kept all his preferred battle equipment and looked in the little mirror on the door. It made him feel like a highschool girl. He had deep circles under his eyes, and grey hairs were coming into his temples, even though he was only in his early thirties. He grabbed his rifle, a couple of jars, one of his less-favoured knives he kept in the locker, and stepped in front of the aluminum door, waiting for it to slide up, to find the Spy and get it all over with. After all, he had nothing to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *not the Sniper's name  
> I don't know when you all can expect the next chapter, but I will try very hard to have it out before two months!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sniper is reunited with the kukri, and with the Spy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol bet you all thought this fic was dead and i wasn't going to continue it (i lowkey thought so too) but ding dong you were wrong, enjoy <3 
> 
> and you know me and my short ass chapters,,, more coming soon though (eventually)

One would imagine that the Sniper would become increasingly more anxious as the day advanced without any sign of the Spy. Not only was there an absence of visitors in his nest; his teammates weren’t getting picked off suddenly in shaded areas either. Was this what it was like being stood up? The Sniper had stabbed the note he had received that morning into one of the wooden planks on the wall with an arrow. He turned and read it, not really absorbing the words that he had mulled over so many times that they had lost meaning. “Come find me,” he said out loud. “Come find me,” a bit more softly. “You’re the one who usually does the finding, aren’t ya, ya filthy Spook?” 

An orange flicker dropped right in front of his window abruptly after the words left his mouth. “BLOODY SPY!” he roared. This was unusual. When was the last time he felt like this, this urgency to find the suited man, and to put up some sort of fight? Sniper thought once again about how it had been a couple weeks since the Spy’s last games until today, and he thought he finally had an answer. This was a build up. He wanted to get the Sniper’s blood boiling again, to see if the bushman cared. It may have occurred to the Spy that stealing the kukri could have been the only reason that the Sniper sought him out, but that was evidently not the case, as the man pulled himself out the window, holding on to one of the rain gutters as he hoisted himself upon the rusting roof of the building, where the Spy stood, blocking the sun from the marksman’s eyes.

“I cannot tell if it was your intention to leave me waiting for as long as possible, or your inability to find me that caused you to take so long.” The Sniper didn’t exactly know what to say to this, so he resorted to scowling at the Spy. The other man smiled, almost inappropriately delighted at the current position he held the Sniper at.

“W-what do you want?” The Sniper didn’t like the way his voice was wavering at all. He had been so confident, so excited; to face the Spy, to get his kukri back, to pin him to the wall while the Spy offered him little resistance, because that was the intention all along, wasn’t it? They were a wolf and a deer, the two of them, but our wolf was timid and our deer was clever, and would only allow itself to be caught if it wanted to. 

He felt his heartbeat rising into his throat, as if the throbbing sound was the closest to words that he could utter. He wished that the sound that drowned out the distant gunshots and desert winds was rattling in the chest of the smug looking Frenchman standing before him instead of his own rib cage, which was constructed out of a deer’s antlers and bent tree branches, plastered over with lean flesh and soaked through with rich, red blood, the same red colour he had been bound by for the extent of his recent memory. The Sniper was sure that the Spy could hear his heart, but only because it was the Spy and not someone else. 

The Spy bent his knees down and stubbed his cigarette out on the hot roof’s surface before procuring the kukri from his person, although the Sniper had no idea how he had managed to conceal a knife of that size in his sleek, slim fitting suit, an action which was necessary on account of each class being allowed only to use his own specialised weapons, and not those belonging to anyone else. 

He took a step toward the Spy, and he could see the his expression shift ever so slightly from the usual sly facade to the shadow of intrigue and curiosity. The look in his eye alone was incentive for another step toward the other man, and another, until the Sniper felt the Spy’s breath ever so slightly on his neck. 

The Spy was not a short man by any means, but the Sniper in his tall, lanky form was still almost a head taller, the Spy’s eyes level with his mouth. The Australian felt a surge of power. The Spy was skilled, precise, and unpredictable, but so was the Sniper. He felt as if he had an advantage right then and there, and he could do anything he wanted to the Spy, which is exactly what he did. 

With a motion so abrupt that it startled him, the Sniper had a grasp on the Spy’s throat. The feeling of his rough, dry hands on the smooth and luxurious fabric of the edge of the Spy’s mask and the soft skin of the Frenchman’s now quivering Adams apple sent a lascivious shiver through his body. His cracked skin stung with the Spy’s sweat, but the pain didn’t register very clearly to the Sniper. There was no turning back. 

The Spy’s face, as usual, was hard to read, even when his air was cut off, but it was clear that the expression was not of fear or disgust, but rather intrigue. The Sniper waited a couple of seconds for the other man to get dizzy before he backed him into the wall of a neighbouring building that grew past that of the roof they were on. The Spy was gasping for air, his eyes were intense and wanting. The Sniper had forgotten about the kurki until he heard the sound of it hitting the ground. He moved it behind himself with his foot, and turned his attention back to the Spy. His grip around the other man’s throat loosened, but he moved closer. He could barely smell the Spy’s cigarette breath after years of smoking himself, but there was a distinct note of luxury that could not be mistaken for belonging to anyone else. Sniper felt like he hadn’t felt since he was a boy shooting jackrabbits in the desert. 

It struck him then that he really didn’t know how to proceed. The Spy was surely at his mercy now if hadn’t been before, and he could really do just about anything to him. He shifted his weight forward in such a way that the Spy couldn’t move in either direction, and withdrew his hand from the Spook’s neck, fingers hovering hesitant for a moment and then gently, in a way that some would call unlike the Sniper, started tracing down the Spy’s jaw, marveling for a minute at the man as much as he marveled at the situation.   
The reaction was, unfortunately but not unexpectedly, a completely expressionless face. The Spy was thinking something, something that the Sniper could not read; and the Sniper didn’t particularly like that. 

“Didn’t you get what you wanted?” the Spy tested.

The Sniper hadn’t expected him to say anything, but felt more comfortable now that the situation could possibly bear a name. “I reckon you’re the one who wanted something?”

“And you are here to give it to me?”

“I’m here to find out what it is you want.”

“You know very well what I want.” The Spy’s gaze shifted downward, and the Sniper was suddenly very aware of his ragged breath, and more aware of the Spy’s vulnerable position against the wall. His heart was once again beating much faster and harder than he felt it should. With rusty, hesitant movements, he shifted his weight forward, getting closer to the Spy. He had an expectant look in his eye that the Sniper concentrated on, but a triumphant smirk was forming on his lips. Finally, looking somewhat like a dog inspecting something more than anything else, and with his eyes shut so tightly he saw colours, the Sniper touched his lips very softly to the Spy’s.


End file.
